Tag Archives: Beauty

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Oh, The Lady You’ve Become

You’re moving to the city you always knew would be home.  And yes, my darling, you’ll be going alone. There will be many limitations, but no limit to what you’ll do. Or how difficult it will be to let go of all you knew. But this town built for millionaires and struggling artists alike, will change more than your address, it’ll change you. You do have those brains in your head and those kickin’ heeled-kicks on you feet, but realize you’ll have to make an effort to remain true.

Because when you first land on Northern ground, you won’t know it then, but you’ll go many places.

You will turn the heads as much as you’ll turn your back in an effort to forget the most charming of faces. On a plane, train, or automobile, you’ll find yourself going above and under water. And not just the waters to the east and to the west, but in ways you’d be ashamed to tell your father. When time moves slower than you had hoped and living on a prayer has left you penniless and broke, don’t sweat. There are opportunities and chance encounters on the next avenue over, and you’ll be thankful to the company you’ve kept. The ambition and fear of regret that brought you to Manhattan will keep you afloat, but it’s your heart that will make you shine. And shine you will my dear, and up that ladder you will climb.

To put on hats you anticipated too big or too small. And skyscrapers you were once convinced were too high and would cause too much of a fall. But on you will go and with each day you’ll grow. Not just into the woman you wanted to become, but into someone you’d be happy to know. The shoes won’t always fit, the zippers won’t always zip, and out of vanity there will be many parties you’ll miss. Because the image you see in the mirror may not be what you see in your pretty head, but pretty it is. So you’ll hold it high and you’ll march on. On and on.  You may worry and you may fret, you may be filled with less hope and more doubt. But you’ll soon rest easy knowing, yes, you’ll always find a way to figure it out. But you’ll still go left when you know you should go right. You’ll lose your heart to some stranger a time or two, and you’ll give him all of your might.

Because even with a pen in your hand and a byline in print – there are certain feelings the glossies can’t make. And that sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of love isn’t always something you can describe and certaintly nothing you can fake. But in the game you’ll play, there may be a charade of players dressed in charm, and nice guys disguised in armor that doesn’t fit your taste. You will date and you will sometimes mate, but most of all you’ll blame it all on fate.

And that little magic will bring you to your knees and wake in places you thought were dead. You will fall head over heels and heels over head. It’ll make you linger on each and every word he said. It’ll make you believe, beyond any reasonable doubt or higher education you achieved, that this feeling, this preciousness can never come to be again. You’ll conclude that while you’ve laid in lust before, this is unlike any romance that’s ever been.

Oh, my sweet, the people you will love.

And though it is a promise I’m sure you’d rather me not keep, you won’t just love once. Or twice or thrice.  You will fall in love on accident and on purpose, with mostly the naughty, but sometimes the very nice. You will change your opinions to fit his, you will let yourself be a fool. And that wildly beating heart, will again be forced to dive back into the pool. And so you’ll swim to chase the fish you’ve always heard were plenty and you may catch the tails of a few. And those you’ll try out for size, place them in your life and maybe in your memories of love, but at some point, you won’t like the view. You’ll grow tired and weary, frustrated with the love you’ve lost and the love you’ve yet to find.

And that’s when you’ll change your mind.

You’ll decide that if love is what you aim to achieve, it is time to start to believe. But not in happily ever after by waiting for prince from the storybooks – but accepting that it is you who will meet your needs. You’ll pick up the pieces of what you shattered, take the blame where it’s due, and forgive the mistakes that were made. And slowly, with a lot of work and more patience than you thought you had, those worries will fade. And even more you will change.

Choices will weigh more heavily than the ones you made the day before. And those adult like things like groceries and buying hosieries will stop seeming so much like a chore. They will become normal and commonplace, part of the routine you’ll make for you. And for the first time, you won’t let what you want be compromised for some dude. No matter how deep the dimple or blue the eye. Because you’ll realize your worth, your hope, your future is in your own rhyme. In the life you create. With maybe, a little help from Captain fate.

And though today is your something-year anniversary of when you packed your bags and moved to the city, the places you’ll go and people you’ll love will continue to grow way past plenty. Your days are always numbered and your twenties certainly won’t last forever, but you’ve found your footing and your balance against every odd. With every disapproving and encouraging nod.

So relish, my love. Thank those powers above. Go out and let your passion play. Listen and appropriately ignore all of those warnings I say. Because, today is your day. Have some fun and celebrate the lady you’ve become.

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Forever and Ever and Always

Of those topics sensitive to my heart, discussing my father’s past illness tops the list.

Though I may display my love, dating, and sex life for the entire web to find and read, when opening up about what it feels like to watch the man you’ve loved the most wither and weaken for six years, helpless to do anything to help him – is an entirely different experience. Maybe blood runs deeper than water, but I’d like to think the love between a daughter and a father is one no one can really understand unless they’re part of it. Especially when it becomes strained with questions that even the best doctors can’t answer.

There was a time during my sophomore year of college where my mother asked me not come home for Easter break because she didn’t want me to see my father in the debilitating state he was in. Not one to be banned from anything – especially my own family – I insisted on trekking two hours down the mountain, regardless of how bad-off my dad had become.

The next few days were spent in and out of waiting rooms, drowning in coffee, and investing in waterproof mascara. My mom and I shared conversations over a box of tissues and collectively lost about 10 pounds on the worrying diet (not recommended or FDA approved). We found refuge in these quite awful chocolate cake sundaes at the hospital’s cafeteria and one afternoon, as we were waiting for results and the start of visiting hours, I couldn’t help but ask her a burning question:

Mom, why do you stay? I mean, I know you’d never leave – you love Dad so very much, but that isn’t the man you married. We don’t know if he’ll ever get his mind back to how it was or what’s even causing his troubles. What are you going to do if he never gets well? Aren’t you afraid?

With her dark-circles and the few wrinkles she has, she closed her eyes briefly, and I watched brittle tears trickle down her flushed cheeks, and through the sadness she smiled at me. She placed her hand, which is identical to mine, just 30 years older, over my fingers and squeezed. As I usually do when dealing with an extremely emotional experience, I found myself unable to cry anymore, but I could still feel my heart wildly pounding, begging for a reason to stop moving, and I wondered if she could feel the intensity through our grasp. I gave her a hopeful grin in return and with the strength she’s given me since I was a child, I clutched tightly back.

Lindsay, my little sunshine. That’s not your dad in there. That’s not the man I fell in love with, you’re right. But he’s my husband and I love him. I love him even when he’s like this and when he’s better. When I decided to make a life-long commitment to him, I meant it with everything I have, knowing that there could come a time when I’d be sitting here, with our child, wondering about the results of a test. This is my test – the test of my love and loyalty. And even if things don’t change, I won’t leave him. I know he wouldn’t leave me, if I was in there, lying in that damn bed. When you fall in love one day and you decide to get married, make sure you know that you’d stand by him through it all. Because, really, you never know what can happen.

At this time I was 19-years-old and though I had been “dating” guys for four years, I knew I hadn’t felt that kind of obligation to someone yet. I was overwhelmed with balancing my contradicting sentiments toward my dad and getting through the semester, so I didn’t focus heavily on the advice she gave me.

But now, as I experience more and more dating experiences and the occasional relationship, I always hear those words in the back of my head when I encounter someone I could see myself with in a long-term fashion. If I decide to actually take the step from casual to serious, from dipping into different flavors to tightening up a jar of monogamy – what would I do if this person became someone else? If an illness out of their control changed the things I loved the most about them: their dynamic, their energy, their personality? Would I still want to stay? More than the prospect of want, though, would I do it regardless of how I felt or how it affected me?

Can I really love someone unconditionally?

In terms of “no matter what” – I’ve generally believed that sort of love only applies to parent/child relationships. I’m pretty positive that regardless of what I do, what I decide, who I marry, where I live, what mistakes I make, or what I engage in – my parents would still love me. They may not agree with my choices and they may not like my actions, but their love would remain a constant force.

In a relationship that’s claimed it’ll stand the test of time, what happens when something goes wrong? When one partner is weaker than the other? When sickness and health become an actual factor of day-to-day life? Or when someone strays or has an affair? When someone wants something more than what their partner can give them? When one wants to travel and one wants to grow roots? When opinions and desires, like everything else in life, change?

The love I’ve found, partaken in, given, and shared has all been quite conditional. I will love you as long as you love me; I will stand by you as long as you stand by me; I will be crazy about you, as long as you’re not crazy; I will be faithful and true, as long as you never look another’s way. I will be in love with you, but do I love you, for you? And not just for what you can give me, but what we can create and withstand, together?

Before I can love without stipulation – if romantic love can truly be such an unqualified emotion – I need to learn to love myself unconditionally. Because there is no foundation between two people that can completely claim it’s unbreakable or shatterproof. While we may make a promise for better or for worse and truly mean it, what we’re really pledging is “I love you right now and I believe I will still love you, no matter what happens.”

When we decide to full-heartedly love who we are, we ca n promise without prerequisites, without rules to be met, without conditions or terms, this love will make it through anything. Even failed attempts of unconditional relationships with other people. Even when you’re tempted by the fruit of another or faced with decisions that we should never have to make. Even in sickness and health. Even in singleness. Even when love doesn’t seem to be enough, but unrestricted acceptance, is.

Because maybe, the key to being able to love deeply, is knowing that even if your partner becomes a stranger or the roles in your relationship change, you still have someone to depend on. Someone who’s presence is unconditional because it’s part of you. Or really – it is you – no matter what, forever and ever, and always.

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This is Me & This is What I Need

While I’ve always known New York is the city that never sleeps, I was somehow under the illusion that its inhabitants do. However, if the last two weeks are any indication of how my street-slicker life is turning out to be, then it looks like I may be learning to function on a few hours rest for the time I pen New York, NY on my return labels.

From the time the clock struck 7 am, letting me know it was time to greet the energy populating outside, until the moment I burst into my apartment, sat down my bag, and collapsed into bed – I was on the go. To and from work. Staying later to close the magazine and arriving early to ensure I crossed all my T’s and dotted all my I’s. Going to this happy hour and that gallery opening. Visiting people in Brooklyn and beyond. Entertaining out-of-town friends I hadn’t seen in ages. Freelancing. This breath-of-fresh-air of a blog that keeps me going, when nothing else does. Figuring out where my heart is, but keeping my mind in tow. New dates with new men. Even newer friends. Movies and networking, dining and wining, and of course, even more writing.

I’ve been waiting for my New York life to start feeling like an actual, functioning, and prospering existence that’s full of friends, outings, experiences, and thriving conversations – and I feel like I’m finally getting there. It’s taken some difficult days that sometimes may get the best of me, but through it all – I’ve never doubted that eventually, skyscrapers would seem more like home than mountaintops. New York has this effortlessway of renewing my spirit and reminding me that the opportunities for me are endless and attainable, if I just remember to keep one thing in check no matter how busy I get or who becomes a main character in my life. And that wildly complicated and perfectly simple thing…is me.

And while I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my schedule being shaken and stirred – the thing that’s made the recipe a bit off is forgetting to take care of my own simple, day-to-day needs.

In my sudden influx of events and adventures, I noticed my mood gradually get worse. By the time Saturday evening rolled around and I had yet to really get a great night’s sleep, tidy up my apartment, or sit around in my sweatpants – I became flat-out bitchy. And along with my intolerableness, I started analyzing myself and worse, putting pressure and asking questions about what I was doing with my life. I started breaking out, which made me resort back to old ways of piling on way too much makeup. Thus, I started to feel less secure, not to mention with my busy schedule, the gym has been out of the question, so I was not feeling like my fit self, either. And when my apartment was merely used to shower and sleep for two weeks, the heap of dirty clothes kept growing, without an end in sight – leaving me with all of those garments we keep, but never want to wear. Admittedly, I may have worn the same pair of socks two days in a row and did all I could to keep that thought out of my mind throughout round-two.

Apart from doubting my appearance and feeling overall just plain exhausted, I also became paraded with worries about everything from my career, my finances to my dating life, and this space: Am I doing enough? Am I working to the best of my ability? Is my job happy with me? Am I going on enough dates? Should I even be going on dates at all? What if I fall in love with someone in the next few months – will that go against the recovery? Will I still be able to love myself in the middle of a full-fledged relationship? Am I there yet?  Do I even know where I’m going? Am I still on the right path with myself? Am I doing the right things? Making the right decisions? Am I saving enough money? Am I spending too much on going out and not enough preparing for my new apartment in May?

What the hell am I doing??

Like the infamous pile of spaghetti, all covered in cheese, once my meatball of confidence rolled off my sturdy table – all was lost. As much as I’m a girl who goes, I’m also a woman who needs alone time to collect my thoughts and find my personal center of clarity. I’ve discovered, in my most recent rampage, that when I forget about the basic necessities that keep me sane – sleeping, running, eating a huge bowl of cereal while watching trashy television in my fuzzy bathrobe – any bit of negativity in me bubbles its way up to the surface.

Until I took away my isolated liberty, I never realized how much I really cherished those hours of seclusion. The time when I’m only in the company of myself.

And so yesterday, instead of accepting an invite to dinner or heading out to mingle at a networking gala downtown, I left work on time and went to find the me I had lost in the last fourteen days. Running four miles was difficult, but it has never hurt so good or made my lungs feel clearer. I enjoyed a decaf espresso with my laundry and cleaning duties, and I caught up on the daily reads I had been neglecting. I soaked my feet and wore a face masque. I called my mom and then retired my phone for the evening. I replied to personal emails I had let pile up. I went invisible on Gchat and closed Facebook and ceased tweeting on Twitter.

I looked at myself in the mirror, saw all of the imperfections I had been focusing on for days – newly formed zits, hair that despareately needs to be trimmed, skin that’s paler than the leftover snow on the streets, and elbows severely thirsty for hydration. And instead of spewing out words of degradation and attempting to fix all that I thought was ugly or wrong, I stopped and made a decision.

A choice to believe that at whatever point my journey is at or approaching, or how many things I want to change or I’m unsure about – this is my life. This is my body. This is how I look. This is my apartment. This is my job. This is my savings accountant. This is my date for the evening. This is my blog. This is my city. This is my home. This is my exhaustion taking over. This is my spirit that will get me through. This is now. This is what it is. This, whatever this is at whatever moment this takes me to, is mine.

This is me and I have to decide what I need.

And while they may say it’s never too late to be the person you wanted to be, it’s also never too early to accept and listen to yourself. Or to realize that sometimes, the best thing you ever do…is absolutely nothing.

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And the Storm Will Rise

There are certain things people say that you’ll never forget: the first time a man tells you he loves you (even if he’s merely a boy at the time), when someone ridicules you publicly, or when you have a heart-to-heart with your mom, not as your mother, but as your friend. I remember each of these moments in my own life, but if someone were to ask me my favorite, most memorable phrase anyone ever said to me, it’d be:

“Well you’re like a Southern summer storm in the middle of August, aren’t ya, now?”

I can’t tell you the woman’s name, but it was a friend-of-a-friend at some family reunion I attended in North Carolina when I was 17. Having only been in my presence for about ten minutes, this older lady decked out in pearls and with nails so perfectly manicured you’d think she lived in a salon, literally nailed who I am in fifteen words.

For those of you who have not had the privilege to experience a thunderstorm in the Southern region of the United States – I hope you do someday. They are beautiful. Out of nowhere, unforgiving gray clouds encircle the endless sky, enticing bursts of sound and light in every direction. The rain with a scent so intoxicating, so vibrant you yearn to step outside to inhale as deeply as you can. But, if you’re educated by the ways of the countryside, you dare not step off of your porch, but allow the storm to capture your attention from afar. Leaving the security of your steps would be quite risky and with the aging Oak trees swaying helplessly in the sweeping winds, you can only imagine what they could do to you, the barefoot and sticky with sweat observer you are.

And then, almost as easily as the storm came, it leaves. Its noise, its electricity, its saturation, and its perfume trail off into a space beyond the Blue Ridge mountaintops you’ve never crossed. It is only then, when the branches rest from their dancing, the daffodils face the sun as it breaks through the clouds, that the real beauty reveals itself.

As everything comes back to life and still at the same time, and the color returns to the fields and the atmosphere…an echoing silence that’s as vivid and consuming as any sound on the Earth, captures the Southern afternoon. It’s simply quiet.

Perhaps the lady didn’t know what she was saying to me when she called me a summer storm, but something tells me that with her accent and the way she sipped her sweet tea – she did. When a relationship comes to a close, when a man leaves me before I’m ready to be left, when I don’t hear from a guy who I was convinced was intrigued by me, or when I feel like I failed at something I thought I deserved, I hear her words ringing loud and clear in my head.

Am I really as messy as a summer storm? Or is love the storm we all chase after, but never quite catch?

When I’m falling in love, I see myself enveloped in a tornado, shaking around aggressively, feeling the rush of lust wash away all of my fears, all of my insecurities, and capture me in a breeze I can’t (and don’t want to) fight. Instead of hiding behind a door, I dodge through it. I tease the storm with my laughter, with my ever-believing, ever-childlike spirit, and I feel unbreakable, unstoppable, and full of a fire I know could never be drowned with rainfall.

Until of course, I hear the thunder.

Or it shakes the ground so violently that mud splashes up against my calves. And lighting strikes a breathless few feet away from me, and though they say it never strikes twice, I start to remember what it’s like to feel the sting of heartbreak, to have that feeling in places you didn’t know existed that tells you “It’s over. It’s just so over.”

And like the same sweet child who ran to escape the unexpected summer rain and the disaster that often followed it, I dive back into my safe place with my hair and my cheeks damp, my mascara creating paintings on my face, and as if I wasn’t soaked enough – I cry. As if I wasn’t messy from the outside free-for-all I just came from, I shield my eyes with my grimy-hands, smearing the wetness even deeper. So deep it feels like it becomes ingrained in my blood and pours out of the hole that I hoped wouldn’t be put in my heart…again.

When I love, I love intensely. I love powerfully and profoundly. I make no excuses for how I feel and I give away pieces I should probably keep to myself – but I do it willingly. I do it with the rush of a hurricane, the destruction of a tsunami, and the intensity of a volcano erupting.

And I do it over and over again. With each and every single man who is lucky enough to be loved by the likes of a Southern summer storm.

In going through this journey, as raging and unpredictable as it seems to be, I thought I may lose some of my splendor. Some of that unyielding optimism that makes me believe my Mr. Right (who may be a Mr. Northern Storm, perhaps) exists, of that passion that helps me string together words and fight my way out of any disaster. I thought maybe, that tailwind that so many men, so many friends, so many people have often said they get mesmerized by…would leave with the addiction.

But then I realized, the best part of the storm isn’t the storm itself, but the calm that follows it. As much as a mess in a dress I am at times, especially when I’m drowning in a flood of new love, being a little cyclone means I find my peace eventually. I accept that no voyage, where it be one I travel alone or with a first (or fifth) mate, is ever safe from rocky waters. That while the storm will always rise, it will also fall – and it is there, you test your lungs and your legs out for size. And with the same strength that made the winds blow, the rain fall, and the leaves rattle and shake in all of the relationships I’ve experienced, I’ve been just as sturdy to stand after they were over.

To stop being a hot mess for a hot minute. To ring the water out of my hair and wipe away the stains on my knees, in between my toes, and on my fingertips. To step out of the drenched clothes and slip into something dry and warm. To open that backdoor and feel the summer breeze float through my ringlets.

And let myself inhale not only the end of the storm, but the colorful promise illuminating the sky. The one that makes you remember no matter how much hell a storm gives you or how much hell you are – there is always something waiting in the horizons you can’t see, in the cityscapes you always wished were in your view, but never quite were.

That somehow, no matter how detrimental the raging waters or how threatening the daunting clouds were – we’d never trade them for anything. Because without the storm, we can’t appreciate the sweet stillness that comes with the sun.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is making Valentine’s Day more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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My Eye is the Beholder

My southern upbringing, every journalism class I ever took, and each article written about what to do on a first date or when attempting to pick up a dude, have all taught me an important lesson:

Always look someone in the eyes.

Seems simple enough and typically, I’ve followed this rule of thumb throughout my love and career life, and I have always utilized its full effect from across dimly-lit parties in midtown. Somehow when striking up a conversation or luring someone into your presence is easier when you not only come across as confident and secure, but when the other person feels like they can trust you. Maintaining eye contact is a non-verbal way of saying, “Hey you, I’m listening to you. I’m understanding what you’re saying. Keep looking at my baby blues and keep talking – you can feel comfortable around me.”

I’ve never been coy or shy and at times, I could probably use a little more reservation, but keeping a friend, a man’s, or a source’s attention hasn’t been a difficult task for me. Those who know me would credit this fact to my outgoing personality, the self-assurance I carry as easily and frequently as my purse, and to my fearless, relentless spirit. But perhaps there is a secret weapon that gives me an extra burst of boldness:

Makeup.

Now, before I start sounding like an infomercial promoting any beauty brand who offers me free loot -let me say I’ve had a love affair with makeup since I was a little girl. I remember my mom sitting at her antique vanity with one of those porcelain mirrors that had a handle, powdering her face, rubbing lotion on her hands, and spraying perfume in selective places. I used to lay across her bed after I finished getting dressed for school and just admire her morning routine. She was (and still is) the most beautiful lady I had ever seen, and I wondered when I’d finally be able to have my own set of blushes, eyeshadows, and have that imprint in my lipstick that defined the curve of my lips. Before my dad and her would go out for dates, she’d always let me dab a little of her signature smell from Oscar de la Renta on my wrist along with a little shimmer on my eyes – and I’d always feel like I was really, truly, a woman. Even if I was only ten.

Little did I know at the time that my mother was wearing more than sparkles and orchid-pink lip color, but she was putting on makeup to hide what she perceived as flaws. As a young girl, makeup never meant anything more than playtime and a symbol of being a grown-up who was allowed to wear such lovely things every day. Really, it wasn’t until middle school that I realized these toys were actually needed to cover up problem areas. Or as I’ve always not-so-lovingly called them: zits.

I’ve never had incredibly bad skin, but throughout high school, college, and even now – I have breakouts that I can’t quite predict or fully prevent. It wasn’t until recently, about a year ago, that I finally gave in and tried Proactiv. I’m not one to shamelessly promote anything because I know everyone’s skin, life, opinions, and tastes are different – but for me, this has been the only formulation that’s actually been a solution. I’ve tried antibiotics, topicals, dermatologists, everything you see on beauty and health shelves, and Proactiv has been the one to give me actual results. It dries out my skin something fierce, but I’d still pick a little tenderness over a face freckled with pimples.

Even so, before I tried this product and reaped of its rewards -I spent over a dozen years dealing with problematic skin. And thus, all of the times I popped and applied pressure that made my issue worse – left me with some scars. To anyone but me, these not-so-ghostly-shaded reminders of past problems aren’t that noticeable. However, being the admittedly somewhat-vain lady I am, I’ve tried everything I can find to mask them.

Why? Because when I’m not covering what I see as imperfections and I’m out in public, especially when talking with guys, I feel like instead of looking at me in the eyes, everyone is staring directly at the things I believe makes me look…ugly.

Recently, I had the opportunity to have champagne and cupcakes with Julianne Hough, best known from Dancing with the Stars at an event for Proactiv (see, I really am a huge fan). With her puppy Lexi in tow, she shed some advice not only about clearing up skin and her road to success, but she said something that stuck with me: when you don’t have to worry about something on your face, you turn your attention towards yourself. Or, basically, focusing on inner beauty becomes more important than outer beauty.

Sure is easier said than done when we’re all our worst critics. Right?

As I left from the event a tad tipsy and overly bubbly, I thought how every man I’ve dated has always told me that I shouldn’t wear as much makeup, that I was simply beautiful without all of the gunk. Most of the time, this sentiment has pissed me off and made me feel like they were trying to boss me around -but perhaps I was just missing what they’re saying. I mean, they had all seen me totally naked- emotionally, physically, and makeup-less, so they could have a point. Plus, they are dudes and when they have a zit or two, it isn’t as popular or socially acceptable for them to buy some Maybelline. Maybe its true that we all have flaws, that we all can’t be airbrushed before we leave for the day, that leaving our insecurities at the door isn’t always possible, but if we turn our attention inwards instead of caking on the confidence outwards – we’d eventually feel better about all of the things that make us, us. Even if that happens to be a few leftover marks from bumps months ago.

With that in mind, I decided to be a little brave and shy away from my drawer full of makeup. Well…not completely, but mostly. Instead of my regular ritual, I merely applied a dab of concealer under my eyes and around some redness, a swipe of mascara and chapstick and headed outside. At first, it was difficult to hold my head up walking past strangers on my block, but being the zealous lady I am, I decided that I had every right to be proud of who I am, even if my scars felt like they were on display for Manhattan. Pushing myself further, I went to the grocery store to return a movie and buy some goodies for the week, and underneath the floursencts that seem to place a spotlight on my face – I started making eye contact.

And you know what? Handsome men still flirted with me. Middle-aged guys still basically fell over themselves to open doors or help me. A woman even complimented me on my blue eyes. The glimpse of my reflection in the frozen food isle didn’t scare me.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but often times, my eye is primarily the chief beholder who determines how beautiful I am. And maybe, all this time when I thought makeup was making me pretty…it was really who I am and how I acted that gave me a glow. That radiance I have that others seem to notice, must not come from a bottle or from being a model, but from just being me. Pesky pimples and all.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is celebrating Valentine’s Day a little differently this year. We’ll make it more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.